THE NEW SHADOW

15. WHERE THE HEAT LIVES

The locker room was silent. Not the comfortable silence after practice. Not the muted noise of distant conversations. This was different. Heavy. Strange. Like the air itself was waiting for something.

Ilya sat leaning slightly forward, forearms resting against his thighs, staring at the floor… until he looked up. João stood in front of him.

No one else was there. For one second, neither of them spoke. They only looked at each other. João wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable either. He looked calm. Like the moment didn’t weigh on him. Like he knew exactly what was happening… or like he didn’t need to name it.

Ilya frowned slightly, more confused by what he felt than by what he saw. He stood up. One step. Then another. No rush. No hesitation either.

He stopped directly in front of him. Too close. João didn’t move back.

Their knees almost touched when Ilya lowered his eyes briefly, like he was evaluating something inside himself… and then, without saying a single word, he sat down on João’s lap. The movement was slow. Firm. Natural. Like it wasn’t the first time.

João barely reacted, only enough to hold him instinctively by the waist, without tension. His hands settled there like they belonged.

Ilya lifted his gaze again. Their eyes met once more. Closer now. Dangerously close. Their breathing had changed. There was no music. No sound. And still… something was pushing the moment forward.

Ilya studied him carefully, like he was trying to understand him… or understand himself through him. His fingers rested lightly against João’s shoulder. Small gesture. An anchor. João said nothing. Only held the eye contact. And then, without warning, without transition, Ilya tilted his head slightly. The kiss wasn’t rough. It was… restrained. Slow. Like he was testing something he shouldn’t be testing. Like he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop.

—Nooooooooooooo!

Shane jolted upright.

Air hit his lungs like he’d been underwater too long. His breathing came uneven and sharp. His heart slammed violently against his chest, messy and out of rhythm, like it was trying to escape him.

Darkness.

His room.

His bed.

It took him a few seconds to understand where he was. He dragged a sweaty hand down his face and stayed sitting there, staring into nothing, trying to piece together what he had just seen… or felt.

—What the fuck…?

The whisper came more for himself than anyone else. It wasn’t the kiss. It was how real it had felt. Too real. He swallowed hard. His throat felt dry. Without thinking, he grabbed his phone. He didn’t even hesitate about who to call. One ring. Two. Three.

—Shane?

His mother’s voice came softly through the line, instantly alert.

—What happened, honey?

And something inside him cracked.

—Mom…”

He inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, but couldn’t quite manage it.

—I need… I don’t know, I just needed to talk to someone. I feel…”

He shut his eyes tightly.

—I feel awful.

Silence on the other end.

Not uncomfortable. Just present.

—I’m here,” she said calmly. “Tell me.”

Shane ran a hand through his hair.

—I had a dream…” He stopped. “No, it’s not just the dream. It’s… everything.”

Yuna didn’t interrupt.

—Ilya…” he continued. “We fought—well, not really fought, but… he saw something that wasn’t what it looked like. And now he won’t answer me. No texts. No calls. Nothing.”

His voice tightened.

—And I know I didn’t do anything wrong. I know that. But…”

He shook his head.

—it looked bad. It felt bad. And now… I don’t know where I stand anymore. I don’t know what he’s thinking. And I’m here like an idiot imagining the worst possible thing.”

He inhaled deeply again, but the air still didn’t feel enough.

—I just dreamed about him with someone else,” he admitted more quietly. “And it felt so real that…”

He stopped, pressing his lips together hard.

—I woke up feeling like I’d already lost him.

Silence again. But not empty.

Yuna exhaled softly before speaking.

—Shane…”

Her voice stayed warm, but firm now.

—Listen to me carefully.

He didn’t answer. But he was listening.

—You did nothing wrong.

Shane closed his eyes.

—But—

—You did nothing wrong,” she repeated more clearly. “And yes, it looked bad. Of course it looked bad. If I’d seen your father in a situation like that, you have no idea how I would’ve reacted.”

That pulled a small breath out of him, almost a humorless laugh.

—But that doesn’t mean what he saw was the whole truth,” she continued. “It means it was a moment that got misunderstood.”

Shane pressed the phone tighter against his ear.

—Then why won’t he answer?

—Because he’s Ilya.

The answer came simple and direct.

—Not everyone reacts the same way,” she added softly. “Some people need to talk immediately… and some people need distance before they can sort through what they feel.”

Shane stayed quiet.

—And you know how he is,” Yuna continued. “He’s not someone who processes things in the middle of noise.”

He swallowed.

—But it hurts,” he admitted quietly.

—Of course it hurts,” she answered instantly. “Because he matters to you.”

Small pause.

—But don’t turn silence into a story that doesn’t exist,” she added gently. “Don’t fill the empty spaces with fear.”

Shane lowered his eyes.

—Give him time,” she continued. “Even if it’s hard. Even if it feels impossible. It’s the hardest thing to do… but it’s also the right thing right now.”

He breathed slowly.

—And when he’s ready, he’ll come find you.

Shane didn’t answer right away. His breathing wasn’t as out of control anymore, but the weight was still there.

—I don’t know if I can wait calmly,” he admitted.

—You don’t have to be calm,” she replied. “You just can’t ruin this out of desperation.”

That made him go still. Actually processing it.

—Trust what you know about him,” she added quietly. “Not what fear is making you feel.”

Long silence. Real silence.

—Thanks, Mom… love you,” he murmured finally.

—Always, sweetheart. You know I love you more.

The call ended.

The room fell silent again. Shane left the phone beside him, but didn’t lie back down. He stayed sitting there on the edge of the bed, staring into nothing. Waiting. Not even knowing exactly what. But feeling all of it.

In Ottawa, the airport felt unusually quiet. Not because it was empty. Because of that specific tension that settles in when everyone knows something’s coming. Across the screens, delay warnings started appearing one after another. Possible snowstorm. Weather alerts. Cancellations. But they weren’t staying there.

Ilya walked through the terminal with steady steps, one suitcase in hand, barely looking around. He hadn’t told anyone. Hadn’t explained anything. He just… left.

João walked a few steps ahead, speaking casually in Portuguese on the phone, relaxed like this was routine for him. Like crossing continents on a private jet was completely normal.

Ilya watched him briefly. That ease. That lightness. It was… strange.

—Everything’s ready,” João said after hanging up, turning back toward him. “They were waiting for us.”

Ilya gave a small nod. Didn’t ask anything else. Maybe because he didn’t want to think too much.

The jet wasn’t aggressively flashy. Worse. It was discreet. Elegant. Everything exactly where it should be without trying too hard. Wide cream leather seats. Warm lighting. Polished wood details. Nothing screamed luxury… but all of it was.

A woman approached as soon as they stepped inside.

—Bem-vindos,” she said with a soft smile. “Welcome.”

Her accent sounded musical. Light. Ilya answered with a brief nod. João, meanwhile, switched immediately into Portuguese. Fluid. Natural.

Ilya didn’t understand a single word, but he understood the tone. Close. Warm. Familiar. This was João’s world. And he was stepping into it. They settled into their seats.

Ilya placed his suitcase beside him and sat by the window. João across from him, relaxed like the space belonged to him. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Only the quiet sounds of preparation. Footsteps. Low voices in Portuguese. Ilya leaned his head back and closed his eyes briefly.

No messages.

No calls.

Nothing.

And for the first time in days… it didn’t bother him.

He looked down at his phone one more time. The screen was empty. For a moment, he almost texted him. Not to argue. Not even to ask for an explanation. Just... to ask how he was doing. His thumb reached the edge of the screen. Then stopped. He slowly locked the phone. Shane had always been the first person on his mind when he woke up. It felt strange... forcing himself, for the first time since they'd met, not to reach for him.

—First time in Brazil?” João asked eventually, finally breaking the silence.

Ilya opened his eyes.

—Yeah.

—You’re gonna like it.

The confidence in his tone didn’t sound arrogant. Just calm.

Ilya studied him for a second.

—Why?

João smiled faintly.

—Because it doesn’t look like anything you know.

That made him think.

Ilya turned back toward the window. Outside, the sky looked heavy and gray. Snow already starting to dust the runway.

—That’s not always a good thing,” he murmured.

João leaned forward slightly.

—Depends what you’re trying to forget.

Ilya didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either.

The plane started moving. Slow at first. Then stronger. The engines filled the cabin, vibrating more through the body than through the ears. Ilya watched the snow disappear behind them.  Watched the gray dissolve into blurred white. Watched everything down there slowly become smaller. Farther away.

During the flight, time became strange. No rush. No interruptions. Just moments.

The crew came by every so often offering drinks and food. Always with that same warmth Ilya still didn’t fully understand, but somehow didn’t mind.

João spoke with them in Portuguese. Sometimes laughed. Sometimes translated.

—They say if you don’t try feijoada, you were never really in Brazil,” he commented at one point.

Ilya frowned slightly.

—What’s that?

João adjusted himself more comfortably in the seat.

—A heavy dish. Meat, beans, spices. Very… Brazilian.

—Heavy?

—Very.

Ilya nodded once.

—Good.

João looked at him with a small smile.

—Then you’ll like it.

Long pauses settled between conversations. Not uncomfortable.  But not entirely neutral either. Ilya caught himself watching João more than necessary. The way he talked. The ease with which he existed in this environment. The effortless confidence. It wasn’t arrogance. It was… belonging.

At some point João leaned slightly closer.

—When we land, it’s gonna be a little… intense.

—Intense how?

—People. Music. A lot happening.

Ilya let out a faint breath through his nose.

—Perfect.

João lifted an eyebrow.

—Yeah?

Ilya shrugged lightly.

—Better than thinking.

He didn’t say it dramatically. Just as fact. João didn’t answer immediately. Only looked at him like he understood more than Ilya was actually saying.

The rest of the flight passed in easy silences and scattered conversations. Nothing deep. And strangely enough… that was exactly what relieved Ilya the most. Not having to explain himself. Not having to feel everything all at once. Hours later, the light changed. The gray disappeared. Blue took over. Bright. Violent. Alive. The plane started descending. Ilya looked out the window. And saw it. The ocean. Vast. Breathing. And beyond it… the city. Different from everything else. The colors. The movement. The heat. Even from above, you could feel it.

—Welcome to Rio,” João said with a half-smile.

Ilya didn’t answer immediately. Still staring. Processing. Like his mind was somewhere else… but his body had already arrived.

—Yeah…” he murmured eventually. “I think it really is different.”

And for the first time since he left… he didn’t think about Shane.

The shift hit before the plane even landed. It wasn’t only the light.

It was the color. The sky wasn’t that heavy gray they’d left behind anymore. It was open blue. Sharp blue. Almost aggressive in how alive it looked. The ocean stretched endlessly beneath them, glittering with movement Ilya wasn’t used to seeing from above. And the city… It wasn’t orderly. Wasn’t quiet. It was alive. Too alive.

The landing felt smooth, but the moment the wheels touched the runway, something changed. Like crossing an invisible line.

From the second they stepped out of the jet, the air felt different. Denser. Warmer. More… present.

Ilya loosened his jaw slightly without realizing it as he inhaled.

—Welcome,” João said beside him, smiling now in a way that wasn’t subtle anymore. “Now for real.”

Ilya didn’t answer right away. He was too busy looking around. The movement. The people. The noise. And then he heard it clearly. Drums. Steady rhythm. Then music. A repeating beat that kept moving forward, pushing everything around it with it. Something he didn’t understand intellectually, but felt immediately in his chest. João glanced sideways at him.

—Marchinha,” he explained. “Carnival.”

Ilya turned slightly. People dancing. Bright colors. Feathers.  Daughter. Movement without embarrassment. It didn’t feel staged for tourists. It felt natural. Like nobody was performing.

They walked a few more steps before João suddenly stopped.

Ilya looked at him.

—What?

João lowered his gaze toward Ilya’s shoes. Then looked back up.

—First rule.

Ilya frowned faintly.

—What rule?

João crouched slightly, opened a small shoulder bag, and pulled out a pair of flip-flops.

—We don’t walk around like that here.

Ilya stared at the sandals.

—You’re serious?

—Very.

He held them out toward him. Ilya let out a small breath through his nose.

—No.

João didn’t smile. Only held eye contact.

—Yes.

One second. Two.

Ilya shook his head lightly… but bent down anyway. Pulled off his shoes. Then his socks. The floor felt warm beneath his feet. Strangely pleasant. João placed the flip-flops in front of him.

—Try them.

Ilya picked them up with visible suspicion and slid one foot in. Then the other. Perfect fit. He looked down. His feet—pale, light-skinned, marked by years of cold weather—contrasted against the warm ground beneath him.

Not especially large, but firm. Lean. Well cared for, with the kind of clean precision that came from someone disciplined even in tiny details. His toes flexed slightly. Weird. But not uncomfortable.

—See?” João said.

Ilya lifted his gaze.

—Doesn’t mean I like it.

João smiled now for real.

—You will.

João had already changed his own shoes too. Dark simple flip-flops. Perfectly natural on him. His feet looked different. Tanned by the sun. Skin that clearly didn’t know winter. Relaxed. Effortless. Like they were meant to move freely instead of staying trapped inside structure and cold. Very him. Very… Brazilian.

Ilya’s gaze lingered one second longer than necessary, like he was trying to understand why that detail suddenly felt important.

A group approached them quickly, but without invading their space. Well dressed. Relaxed. Smiling. One of the men extended his hand.

—Welcome to Rio, Ilya. It’s an honor to have you here.

Ilya returned the handshake firmly.

—Thank you.

As they talked, the rest of the group kept that same warm energy. No stiffness. No excessive distance. Everything felt more… human. More direct.

João slipped naturally into the conversation, switching between Portuguese and English effortlessly. Ilya understood enough. He didn’t feel excluded. But he wasn’t fully inside it either.

As they walked toward the exit, Ilya openly watched everything around him. The people. The faces. The way they moved. The way they looked at each other. There was something there. A different kind of confidence. A different kind of beauty. Not cold perfection. Life. And then they stepped outside.

The heat hit instantly. But not aggressively. More like being wrapped in it. Ilya narrowed his eyes briefly while adjusting. And then the thought came naturally.

Why the hell had I never come here before?

It wasn’t logical. More like delayed realization.

A couple walked past them. They were laughing about something stupid. One of them said something. The other answered by giving his shoulder a gentle shove. Without realizing it, Ilya smiled. The image lasted barely a second. But it was enough. He remembered a summer in Montreal. Shane trying to teach him how to eat a hamburger “like a normal person.” He had ended up with sauce on his nose. Ilya hadn’t stopped laughing for five straight minutes. The smile came on its own. And disappeared just as quickly. The weight returned to his chest. He lowered his gaze. Breathed slowly. Not now. He repeated those two words to himself as if they were enough to keep the memory in its place. They weren’t.

—We’ve got a small welcome set up,” one of the men explained while guiding them toward a black vehicle parked nearby. “And after that, if you’d like, we’ll grab something to eat. We know the flight was long.”

Ilya nodded once.

—Perfect.

They got in.

The drive wasn’t long, but it was enough for Ilya to keep absorbing everything. The streets. The movement. The closeness between people. Nothing felt distant here.

At a red light, the car came to a stop beside a street vendor weaving between the lanes with a blue cooler balanced at his side. He offered bottled water, sodas, and freshly opened coconuts with the effortless speed of someone who had done it every day for years.

A little farther ahead, two barefoot boys were playing soccer on the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians as they chased a faded ball. One missed his shot, and the ball rolled to the feet of a woman sweeping outside her small shop. Without missing a beat—or even stopping her singing—she trapped it with the tip of her sandal and sent it back with a perfectly placed kick.

From somewhere above, music drifted down from a balcony, completely different from the song playing on the driver's radio. The two melodies blended with the sound of car horns, street vendors calling out to customers, and the distant rhythm of drums.

The breeze pouring through the open window carried the scent of salt, gasoline, ripe fruit, and something sizzling on a nearby street corner. Ilya took a deeper breath.

Everything seemed to be happening all at once. And somehow... it all belonged exactly where it was.

The restaurant was elegant without feeling rigid. Open. Full of natural light. Background noise nobody tried to hide. They sat down. A menu appeared in front of him. Ilya opened it. Stopped immediately. He didn’t understand a single thing. His brow furrowed slightly.

—What is this?

João leaned closer.

—Brazil.

A faint breath escaped Ilya.

—Not helping.

João pointed toward a few dishes.

—You have to try this. And this one…”

Small pause.

—Depends how brave you feel.

Ilya looked at him.

—Brave?

—Trust me.

Ilya held his gaze another second. Then closed the menu.

—Fine.

As the conversation continued around him—English, Portuguese, laughter, proposals, plans—Ilya leaned back slightly in his chair. Watching. Listening. Feeling. Everything was different. Everything felt… lighter. And for one moment—just one—his mind went completely blank. No Shane. No conflict. No noise. Just there.

Not because anything had been solved.

But because he had decided… not to think about it anymore.